


The Blood of the Covenant

by Coffee_Scribbles



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (with your sons parents who should be dead), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon Typical Violence, F/M, Getting Back Together, M/M, Multi, Vampire AU, Well... Sorta, Young!Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 15:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18593824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_Scribbles/pseuds/Coffee_Scribbles
Summary: Bruce was twelve, —but with a birthday only a few days away he insisted everyone call him thirteen— and like most nearly thirteen year olds, Bruce went to school, hated homework, and loved nothing more than a root-beer float from the retro looking corner-store a block from school, or Alfred’s freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.With two eyes, two arms, and two knees he got scratched up from falling down in the grass a few too many times, he looked like most kids his age too.In fact, nothing about Bruce stood out at all among his wealthy classmates, except that he lived in a haunted mansion.Oh and also, his parents should be dead.I.e.: the Waynes Live But Get Turned Into Vampires™ fic literally no one asked for - but I made it angsty (and sweet) anyway.





	The Blood of the Covenant

The lantern shined dimly, bobbing slightly with the hand that held it, its light shining over wet grass and mud that caught between his toes. Behind him dragged a bucket half filled with water, and a mop.  
He could take the path, but it was cobblestone and bumpy and the little rocks between hurt his feet.  
And…  
His eyes look down, and down tilts the light of his lantern, to cast over the large slabs of stone that cover their graves.

There was blood there.  
There was also blood across the pathway.

Bruce sighed, setting down the water and the mop, and beginning to scrub away the red; it had to be done before morning, or else the blood would dry, and Alfred always told him when he skinned his knees playing in the fields to cuff his shorts up, because dry blood was very hard to get rid of.

The lantern flickered, bugs circling the light in the midst of the moonlight. Scrubbing away the blood and mud, as Bruce hummed a little tune to himself, it was the one he never could remember where he learned it from, the one he tried not to hum around Alfred because it always seemed to make him nervous.

The broken grandfather clock near the open window tried to chime, but the sound came out more as broken clacking of mechanic parts than much else; though through this, Bruce could tell that it was nearly six in the morning, and that he’d best hurry, or Alfred would get worried.  
So with a quick once-over of the now cleaned up area, and a quiet click to turn off the rusty lantern, little Bruce marched back over to the garden and poured out the mucky water into a garden bed. Placing the mop and the bucket back in the shed next to Dad’s old axe, and venturing back to the old oak tree.  
The sun slowly climbing the horizon, Bruce raced up the old oak tree to the tallest stable branch, and swung back through the window into his room, wiping his muddy feet off on a stray towel, Bruce hopped back into bed. With a sigh of accomplishment, curled back into the fresh smelling duvet.

What felt like a second, but quite possibly could have been an hour later, a familiar knock sounded, and after exactly five seconds, the old hinges creaked with the opening of the door, and the light in his room flicked on.

“Good morning Master Bruce,” Alfred hummed, the same way he did every morning.  
Bruce sat up in his bed, rubbing at his eyes. Noticing his bedside clock read seven o’clock, he wondered how much sleep he had gotten.

“Mm mornin Alfred,” Bruce stretched his shoulders with a large yawn for his comparatively small frame.

“Come, get dressed, you’ll miss breakfast.” The door clicked shut behind Alfred.

Lethargically, Bruce slid off the edge of his bed and picked up the school uniform from where Alfred had put it, somehow without Bruce ever seeing him enter the room.

Alfred must have been some sort of spy before he came to Wayne Manor, Bruce figured, it was the only way he did things like that on a regular basis.

Bruce opened his door, now dressed in his school uniform of navy blue slacks, a white dress shirt, and a blazer with the school crest embroidered on the left breast. He had never liked the thing, but what young boy does like their school uniform?

See, for all meaningful purposes, Bruce was a normal little boy; or as normal of a boy as you can be with the inherited wealth of two billionaires and a company to his name.

Bruce was twelve, —but with a birthday only a few days away he insisted everyone call him thirteen— and like most nearly thirteen year olds, Bruce went to school, hated homework, and loved nothing more than a root-beer float from the retro looking corner-store a block from school, or Alfred’s freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.  
With two eyes, two arms, and two knees he got scratched up from falling down in the grass a few too many times, he looked like most kids his age too.

In fact, nothing about Bruce stood out at all among his classmates, except that he lived in a haunted mansion.

Oh the Wayne Manor wasn’t actually haunted, but it was certainly the kind of place your mother, if she ever found you poking about the area, would tell you not to play around. 

Something about it just wasn’t right.

Of course it was large, well maintained. The garden may not have been kept in the best repair, what with how much cleaning had to happen on the large interior of the manor, but there was one place kept well cleaned; and that was the graveyard out back.

There were rumors of screaming coming from the property at night, but most folks just laughed those off as tall tales to keep kids from wandering out at night.

Bruce didn’t have many friends, but that was fine by him.  
He had his parents to look after. What happened to them happened so long ago that Alfred had hoped Bruce would forget all it was exactly, but Bruce remembered… well, as best a nearly thirteen year old with a wild imagination could remember anything, that is.

Bruce just remembered walking out of the theater with his Momma and Dad’s hands in his, and then a man standing off by the side, leaning up against the brick wall which must certainly be cold, without any sort of jacket at all.  
Momma tugged Bruce behind her, tightening her warm grip around his tiny hand.

When that strange man blocked their way, Momma pushed little Bruce behind a tall garbage bin and pulled her hand out of his grip, hoping Bruce would go unseen. Bruce had to hold his hands to his chest and ball them such as to not reach out for her again.  
Bruce understood through her eyes that she needed him to be quiet.  
He also knew she was afraid, and it scared Bruce too.  
His little heart was beating fast in his chest, and then those awful feelings began, fear worming through his stomach. Momma and Dad were talking urgently, the man who was most certainly not feeling as nice as Momma and Dad were, talked slower.  
Bruce couldn’t remember the words of it, but for some reason the slow words unnerved him even more.

Then there was something like a fire cracker going off, closer than Dad would ever deem safe, and Bruce felt pain like he’d never felt before, all through the side of his chest, even when he broke his arm falling from the old oak tree it’d never hurt so much; and when Bruce woke up in a hospital bed with a ring in his ear that just wouldn’t go away.  
Momma and Dad were nowhere to be found.

Through a mixture of medication and boredom, staring at white walls and not being taken seriously enough by any of the nurses to get any sort of answers; Bruce didn’t get much information after that.  
All he knew was that things were… different now.

Momma stopped getting up in the morning to help Alfred make eggs and biscuits.  
Dad didn’t go out to get the paper or help trim the hedges.  
They slept all day and only got up when it was dark, disappearing for hours at a time, long past when Alfred would insist Bruce be off to bed. Then, they’d come back just before dawn, their mouths all stained red and dripping.  
They said they were hungry, and that was all it was.  
They said he’d understand one day.

Bruce greatly doubted that.

Bruce tried to tell Alfred about it, to talk to him, but every time he’d bring it up, Alfred would turn away. The same way he would when Bruce would hum that one song that he never could remember where he learned it from, the one he tried not to hum around Alfred because it always seemed to make him sad.

Little by little, Momma and Dad talked less and less. Bruce brought up that he tried to tell Alfred, and Momma, who was always so upfront, just looked away sadly.  
She said that, just like Bruce, Alfred just wouldn’t understand quite yet. Maybe someday, but until then, Momma and Dad’s midnight wanderings from out of their graves would have to be their little secret.  
How, Bruce thought, anyone could keep a secret from Alfred, was anyone’s guess. But it seemed that it was something Alfred did not want to know or acknowledge; and thus, it was a bit easier.  
So, Bruce did what he could and kept it, for a little while.

But Alfred was so sad without Momma and Dad.

So, he tried to tell him.  
Alfred got so mad. He yelled that he thought Bruce was over this little fantasy, that Bruce knew, as well as he did, that they were not coming back.  
An hour or so later, Alfred apologized silently with tea, and Bruce pretended that he was lying, that Momma and Dad weren’t back. Because Alfred just wouldn’t understand quite yet.  
Maybe someday, but until then, Momma and Dad’s midnight wanderings from out of their graves would have to be their little secret.

So Bruce stopped trying to tell him about Momma and Dad.

And after a little while, Momma and Dad’s visits got shorter and shorter, their teeth got long and sharp, their faces pale and sallow. Their hair got a bit thinner, and Dad even lost the mustache Momma loved so much. But her big black eyes never seemed to care anymore, even about Bruce.  
It was when Momma stopped singing Bruce to sleep with that one song he liked, the one he tried not to hum around Alfred because it made him miss Momma… that Bruce knew, Momma and Dad weren’t ever getting better.

That was years ago, and now they didn’t talk at all. They just hissed like angry possums when the light from his lantern shined too bright, keeping to the shadows and making a mess of their meals.  
It was like they weren’t even people anymore; just animals in Momma and Dad’s skin.

But, they were still his parents, even if they smelled like rotten ham.

So Bruce went about his days as normally as an almost normal, almost thirteen year old boy can. He went to school, did his homework, brought home his report cards all decorated with sticker stars and smiley faces, even though Dad didn’t seem to know or care what they were anymore.

Bruce had a little money from his allowance, and when he had a little time before Alfred could get him, Bruce would go down to the retro-styled corner store, where Mr Johnson would tell him to say hello to Bruce’s folks for him. And Bruce would; even though they just blinked at him and crawled up the wall.

There were days it was harder to pretend though, it just hurt. It wasn’t fair. When Bruce saw the other kids getting picked up by their parents at school or playing in the park, it hurt so much he thought his heart would just give up.  
Dad had always told him life wasn’t going to be fair, but Bruce never thought it would be so terrible until parent-teacher conference day, where only Alfred came along, and no one wanted to talk about Momma or Dad at all.  
It was times like those that he’d go home and lay on top of the cool stone slab on Momma’s grave, and imagine momma was holding him, and that she was there to sing him to sleep.  
And Bruce would feel better… for a little while.

Then he’d get up, clean up all the blood his parents left behind the night before, and hope that he’d have enough time for a quick nap before Alfred came up the next morning.

It wasn’t fair that he lived this way, but it also wasn’t fair that he had enough wealth under him to last his whole life.  
And Dad had always told him life wasn’t going to be fair.

 

A group of guys from the next town over heard about the haunted manor and came to check it out, the sunset breaking red behind their motorbikes that roared like mountain lions as they approached the manor.  
They made up their liquored up minds to torch the place, after they tore it up to prove to each-other and their girlfriends that they weren’t scared of anything.

Bruce, who had just been dropped off before Alfred went out to get groceries, was out in the garden when he heard them coming, and he had rushed behind the old shed to hide. His heart pounded wildly just like it had years ago, as the boys kicked over furniture in his home.  
Bruce could hear one of the men speak through the open window next to that broken grandfather clock.

“Dis place ain’t haunted,” he complained, sounding vaguely annoyed. “It’s just a bunch’a old junk!”  
There was a thunk like the grandfather clock being kicked over.

“What about that shed? And out back, Johnny?” Said another, “we ain’t checked out there yet.”

Bruce’s heart pounded harder, so hard he thought they must surely hear it. He tried to muffle his breathing, hands tight over his lips so he wouldn’t make a sound.  
He was terrified; but not for his own sake. For his parents, who were still asleep under the slabs of rock just feet away.  
They wouldn’t be up for a little while yet, until the sun was fully set they were as still and helpless as baby birds.

Out the creaking backdoor, footsteps approached.

Bruce quickly looked around for a plan, like Alfred, he had to have a plan to protect them. He opened the shed, looking around in the shadows for a moment until his eyes caught on the shape of Dad’s old axe.

The boys were on the yard now, their big black boots squelching in the wet dirt.

Bruce grabbed the axe and dragged it with him, telling himself he was brave, the bravest damn thirteen year old ever.

The axe scraped across stone until he stood in front of the graves.  
No one was going to hurt Momma and Dad as long as he was there.

And now the intruders were there, the beam of their flashlight making his eyes wince and narrow.

“Well,” smirked the one of the boys, “look what we have here.”  
He was tall and big, far bigger than Bruce but that didn’t deter him.  
Bruce could smell the cigarette smoke on him from five feet away, and he could tell that his clothes hadn’t been washed well due to all the tears.

Bruce tried to lift the axe, but only managed it maybe half a foot off the ground.  
“Get out of my house,” Bruce growled, as deep as he could make his voice go.

“Or what?” Said the one called Johnny, he had a scar up his cheek and an apple core in his hand that he casually tossed onto the ground.  
He shrugged up his leather jacket, popping the collar and snarling in a way he obviously thought made him look cool; but really just made him look like a right twat.  
“You’ll swing around your little axe and break my pinky toe?”

The group howled with laughter, but Bruce just gripped the axe tighter.

“Get out of my house or you’re dead,” Bruce snarled loudly over their cackles. But they didn’t wanna listen.  
So Bruce remembered all Dad taught him about how to swing it right. It was much to heavy, but with all the force he could muster, Bruce turned and with the back end, managed to knock the jaw of ‘Johnny’. Strong enough to knock out at least a tooth.

Not expecting the blow, Johnny fell to a knee, clutching his mouth with his hands as he screamed bloody murder into his fist.  
One of the other boys muttered a few profanities that Bruce had promised Alfred he’d never say.

But Johnny, he got up faster than Bruce had expected. And before Bruce could hit the man again, Johnny ran forward and lifted Bruce up above his head, slamming Bruce down into the dirt with a loud crack.

Bruce was still seeing stars when the man came at him again.

“Stop it Johnny, stop it!!” Cried one of the girls, Bruce tried to blink away the blur in his eyes to see what was happening, but it didn’t work.

“Yeah Johnny, he’s just a kid. Come on.”  
Bruce thought the man had a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, pulling him back, but Bruce couldn’t quite be sure. His head hurt, and he felt dizzy.

This time, the one called Johnny listened. He spat blood onto the walk just next to Dad’s grave, and took a step back, turning away, swearing under his breath.  
Leaving Bruce in a crumpled heap.

But they never stood a chance.

There was a snarling sound from beneath the dirt floor, and like a firecracker going off too close, the graves burst open.

The intruders screamed and yelled and tried to run, but the creatures that were Momma and Dad came up from the depths; and they were far faster. Jaws unhinging with wide bloody fangs, springing to the sky and dropping down onto the gang, tearing into their flesh with their claws and their big pointy teeth.

By the time it was over, there was blood and bits of flesh strewn everywhere. As Bruce struggled to breathe fully, he pushed himself to sit up, bones creaking as he did.  
He noticed the hopefully just unconscious bodies of the men and their girlfriends, all slumped and tied together with a garden hose in the corner.  
Bruce dragged his body forward to lean up against Dad’s tombstone, wondering how the hell he was gonna clean up all the blood splattered around the room and over the walkway before Alfred got home.

Bruce wondered if it was the darkness of night, or perhaps a concussion, that was making it hard for him to see; the edges of the trees beyond shifting dark and slightly fuzzy.

Momma was the first to creep over to Bruce, but Dad came a minute later. They sat maybe a foot away, as watchful as ever.  
Bruce blinked up as Momma carefully, ever so carefully lifted her hand. Her thick dark, claw-like nails, tucked toward her palm, as she ran the back of her hand down his cheek, and gently brushed the hair from his eyes.  
The hair felt slightly sticky as it peeled away from his skin.

Momma and Dad, oddly enough, didn’t even touch the bodies they’d torn into. Bruce guessed they just weren't that hungry.  
Oh he didn’t mind, Bruce was feeling tired now, his mother leaned close and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Sleep,” Dad’s voice was scratchy, but it was distinctly his father.

Bruce perked up, he wanted to shout with joy, to scream, because his parents were still in there! They were still here!!  
But he was so tired… so maybe leaping from the rooftops could wait, for a little while.  
Bruce blinked, long and slow, so slow his eyes just fell shut.

He could almost hear them humming that song that they’d sing with Alfred, the one Alfred never liked to hear these days because it reminded him too much of Momma and Dad.

 

“Master Bruce, Master Bruce!! I need you to stay awake for me!”  
Alfred’s voice cut through the darkness, the lantern in his hand sending Momma and Dad scurrying off behind the trees.

Bruce blinked his weary eyes open, they were dry and blurry, but his head felt a bit better now…  
Bruce lifted his head, and off of it fell a small scrap of cloth that had been pressed to the wound on his head.

“What the bloody hell happened here?” Alfred asked, kneeling down in front of Bruce. His shotgun rested on his shoulder, held tight in one hand as the other poked around Bruce’s head wound.  
“It doesn’t look too bad… but in case of a concussion we’d best keep you awake,” Alfred said. He offered Bruce a hand.

When Bruce didn’t take it, Alfred spoke again.  
“Come, we’d best bandage you up.”

Still, there was nothing.

“…Bruce?” Alfred said a little more unsurely, kneeling down again.

“You… you asked what happened?” Bruce swallowed, his throat felt dry.  
He looked up to the moon, it was at least a quarter of the way into the sky by now.  
That meant Momma and Dad had just been sitting next to him for at least two hours.  
It meant he hadn’t dreamed Dad telling him to sleep.

Bruce smiled a little.  
That meant, somewhere in them, Momma and Dad were still there. They still loved him.

Likely, that meant they still loved Alfred just as much as they had back then.

“They’re not dead. They are still alive… just, not quite how they used to be.”

Alfred swallowed, his throat tight.  
“My boy…” Alfred’s voice was sad and slow, “you’re hurt, you’re not thinking straight.”

Bruce shook his head violently; an act that he very soon came to regret.

“No, please just listen,” he whispered.

Momma, sensing that Bruce was hurt, but also seeing Alfred, hesitated at the edge of the shadow.

“I can show you them.” Bruce choked back tears.  
He needed this. He needed them to be together again; to be happy.

“My boy,” Alfred whispered, falling to his knees.  
His jaw was tight, as he pulled Bruce into a hug.  
“There is nothing I want more in this world than for us all to be a family again,” Alfred whispered choked words into his son’s shoulder.  
“But…”

Suddenly, a cool body, arms carefully wrapping themselves around Alfred and Bruce.

Alfred jerked back, his forgotten shotgun aimed at the creatures throat a moment later.

“NO!” Bruce forced himself in front of the gun, the cool metal now pressed to his own neck.  
Alfred’s aim held for a second, before turning over Bruce’s shoulder, at the creature. The creature that was now also held behind a second, who had scurried into the fray just seconds ago.

“What the hell is that thing.” Alfred’s voice as cold and horrified, as you’d expect from a man who had just seen a ghost; or what was left behind.

“That’s… Momma, I know she’s different now but-”

“No!” Alfred barked, the gun shaking in his grasp.  
“Martha is DEAD, Thomas is DEAD. They died four years ago!! They- They-”  
Bruce knew not even Alfred could deny the resemblance.  
“What proof do I have that it’s really them?” His voice was weak; and they both knew the answer.  
Bruce. Bruce was all the proof he had, or would need.  
He trusted his son.

But before Bruce could say what they were both thinking, from his Dad's fanged mouth began a whisper of a song. Gentle, quiet… familiar.

"It can't...." Alfred's hands were shaking, every bone in his body taught as he watched the images of the man and woman he loved so much; people he thought long dead, stand. Different yes, but in the ways that mattered, still the same.

The gun clattered to the ground.  
Thomas... was humming the song.

Alfred let out a shaking sob, something he had held back for so long. Never allowing himself to grieve, focusing on any and everything else to distract from the agony.  
And now they were just... back. Alfred balled his hands into fists. If he had only listened to Bruce the first time, if he hadn't been so struck with grief... “I...” he whispered, hunched, mud certainly sinking into the knees of his slacks, and tears falling down onto the cold stones.  
“I, I’m so sorry,” Alfred whispered, “I’m so… so sorry.”

Small, warm arms wrapped around him, as Bruce pulled him tight.

"It's okay. We're... we're gonna be okay."

Then two more pairs of cool arms warily wrapped around them, careful not to poke either with their sharp claws or fangs, and all anyone could do was cry, and smile.

And among broken sobs, the dead began to hum their song.  
Their family's song.


End file.
